You Can Never Go Home Again
by Dora
Summary: Charles, the youngest child of Scott and Jean Summers, goes through his own personal hell, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.


DISCLAIMERS: Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, Bobby Drake, Nathan Dayspring-Summers, Franklin Richards and any other recognizeable figures belong to Marvel Comics, though this incarnation of Rachel Summers is mine, as is Charles, Alex and Mayana. Amy and Lily are Gabby's, Jadelyne is bratly's, and Samantha, Ben, Susan and Rob are Zanne's.   


* * *

  
May 5, 2023  
1:17 PM   


"So then what happens?"   


"I'm not sure yet. I was thinking that maybe after Aaron finds Elisabeth OD'ed, that would put the past fifteen years into perspective for him. You know, a 'what did I do with my life in all this time?' type of thing..."   


"Sounds good, although you might consider playing down the cliche angle. You said she was hardly the love of his life, right?"   


"Right." Charles Summers nodded enthusiastically from his seat on a windowsill overlooking Central Park. How Michael had ever gotten such a fantastic apartment, he'd never know, but he and his boyfriend had decided that they shouldn't jinx the gift by dwelling over it. That suited him fine.   


"Then keep the tears to a minimum, maybe?" Diplomatic as ever, Charles mused. Michael was far too considerate of his fragile writer's ego. "You've established that this is a very self-absorbed man. So long as you don't have him wailing over Elisabeth's corpse like the end of a Rambo film, I think it sounds bloody brilliant." He smiled then -- one last deft assurance that the younger man wouldn't take offense at his suggestions -- and Charles desperately tried not to melt like the sap he knew himself to be. Being in love was a real pain in the ass that way, especially when you had a reasonably manly image to maintain.   


"Well, I wouldn't call it _brilliant_..." Charles looked away from the view outside and to the typewritten draft of his latest book that sat in Michael's lap. "But please, feel free to say that again."   


From across the airy room, Michael met his junior's teasing grin with a brilliant smile of his own. "Brilliant, Summers. You're going to have your name in lights one of these days, on par with Twain or Fitzgerald or King, so long as he doesn't rise from the grave to write another Dark Tower addition."   


"Hey, flattery gets you everywhere..." The look Michael responded with said that he was very aware of that fact and wasn't likely to forget it any time soon.   


"If that's the case, come over here and sit in my lap, little boy, and we'll talk about publishing deals."   


Charles stood with every intention of doing so, only to got diverted by the phone trilling out that yes, it was still there, and no, it wasn't particularly fond of any lecherous going ons. Michael picked up without missing a beat -- he was still leering, the cad -- and that left Charles the opportunity to bound over to the couch he was occupying.   


"Bennington residence. This had better be incredibly important, as you've just interrupted my corrupting an innocent."   


"Michael? It's Rachel."   


"Rachel! I suppose I can put off fondling your brother for a chat with my favorite redhead that isn't your mother or any other relation who could likely pulverize me for saying so." Curling up next to his boyfriend, Charles could hear that Michael's joke fell flat. That in itself was unusual -- aside from his father, who was still mildly uncomfortable about his youngest child's sexuality, Michael was generally adored by his family. He'd hit it off with Rachel in particular, though found Charles's sister-in-law, Samantha, just as enchanting. They'd chalked that up to a lack of mutual interests, but an abundance of Southern charm on Sammy's part.   


"Actually, I just wanted to see that you two were all right. I'm sorry for being so brief, Michael, but could you put my brother on? It is important, I promise."   


"No apologies necessary, Rachel, you know that." Their eyes met then, and Charles could see that Michael was just as confused. He straightened up and reached for the phone, shrugging helplessly. "I'll speak to you later, I hope -- you still owe me gossip about Franklin."   


"Ray? It's me. Everything okay?"   


Across the line he could hear his sister sigh. It sounded relieved, though he wasn't sure. "I think so... I hope so. Nothing strange has happened today, has it?"   


Possessing the manners that Charles lacked, Michael had patted his significant other fondly and moved across the room to give the siblings a moment of privacy. "Aside from a confrontation with the garbage disposal, no, we're fine. What's wrong?"   


"I got precog earlier during a conference this morning."   


Now _that_ was unusual. Rachel's precognative abilities to catch an occasional glimpse into the future were very rare, unlike those of other various relatives, such as Lily Drake's. At twenty-seven years old, she could easily count these flashes of what was to come on one hand. Much to the chagrin of their nephew Rob, Rachel never picked up anything that wasn't of tantamount importance -- she couldn't pick winning lottery numbers or choose who would win the Super Bowl.   


"Dammit... What was it? Anything clear?" For a scant second, gruesome images of his family members caught in bad situations flitted across his mind. Inwardly cursing an all too vivid imagination, he brushed them away. "Have you called anyone else?"   


"No." Any other time, Charles might have asked for further clarification. This time, though, he knew. It wasn't Sammy or Nate, Mom or Dad, Uncle Alex and Aunt Lorna, or any of the other relatives. It was him. Oh, God. It was him and _Michael._   


"Charles?"   


"Nothing, Michael. Ray was just telling me about one of her hellions at school." He tried to smile convincingly. From across several burroughs, his sister telepathically projected a wave of worried affection. Charles studiously examined his shoes. "Go on, Ray."   


"I'm not sure what it is, just that it's not good. Please, Charles, be careful. Both of you. It wasn't clear, but it was so--" She stopped before she could say anything else, but across their siblings' link, Charles distinctly heard the word "bloody" come through loud and clear.   


"Okay." He felt as though he were dreaming. This couldn't be real, because Rachel's precog flashes were always right, and she couldn't be right now. He'd taken great efforts to keep Michael out from the shroud of death and violence that surrounded his family...   


"Charles? I'm sorry, I just wanted to warn you. I could be wrong, but just in case..."   


"Okay. Just in case. We're cool, Ray. I'll talk to you later." Click, and the phone was dead, and now Charles felt it, too, that awful forboding that came with the Summers genes. Michael was at his side the second he hung up, guiding him back to the couch with a lover's touch. Because that's what he was. And it made Charles's Dad blush like Susan, the idea of his youngest son doing all kinds of interesting things with this charismatic man that everyone seemed to like, but that was okay too, because Charles loved him, loved them both, though thank God in different ways, because this wasn't _Alabama,_ for Christ's sake...   


"Are you all right?"   


Words, words, come out with a few words and tell him that you're bloody brilliant even if you're not. You're a writer, you can rattle off an essay before most people can blink. "I love you."   


"..."   


Oh, silence, that's never good. It's like being a woman and telling a man you love him first, that always scares them away and makes you look desperate...   


"I love you too, Charles, you know that. Now what's wrong? You look like you just lost your best friend."   


Please don't say that, Michael. Don't tempt fate, don't get my allotted angst set in motion, _please,_ because it'd really suck if I lost you, and not even in the good way. "I'm fine. It's nothing." Why was he saying _that?_ "Ray just had to tell me about some bad stuff going down at work, that's all. You know how kids are... hits you right here." Fist to heart, wow, doesn't that hurt.   


"Yes, it does." Michael smiled, and it was wistful, almost sad. A "you're lying to me, and I know, and you know that I know, but I'll let it pass this time because I love and trust you" smile. Charles fought against the urge to hug him desperately, to tell him that something was wrong, but he didn't know what, so they should lock themselves away for the rest of forever. But that was too Uncle Hank, and he knew it. You don't stop living because you lose out once -- life is one big chance? Who had told him that? Probably Sammy. She was very profound when she wasn't being a smartass.   


And then there was Michael again. Michael the diplomat, Michael the politician, Michael the comforter. "How about we take in a film tonight? It'll get your mind off of Rachel's problems. The premiere for Eva St. Eve's latest attempt to make something of herself. We can make Rob jealous," he grinned, and Charles recognized that paternal look of concern, the "we'll distract the dear boy from his worries" look, except this wasn't his father, this was his boyfriend, dammit.   


"Okay." Charles looked away from his manuscript, the one he knew now that he would never finish, and up to the love of his life. Add something witty before he asks what's wrong again... "Can we play with all the straight women's minds again?"   


~*~

  


May 5, 2023  
10:24 PM   


They'd gone to see Eva St. Eve in On Their Own, some black attempt at a comedy she'd co-starred with Alex Wagner in, and it was good, but not great. Michael had teased him throughout the movie, saying that Wagner was attractive, and didn't those green eyes go beautifully with that black hair, and Eva, darling that she was, really had nothing on her male counterpart. Charles didn't have the heart to tell him that he knew Wagner, sort of, and sat silently the entire time, holding Michael's hand in a deathgrip.   


When it was finished, Michael had congratulated Eva, Charles had played along if only for a moment and demanded that they bypass Wagner, and they'd left. Limos and cabs were equally difficult to find, and Charles, who wondered if they should have taken a teleporter if nothing else, God bless Reed and Franklin Richards for providing him with one, quietly agreed when Michael suggested that they wait for the crowds to go thin out and walk down a few blocks for a coffee in the meantime.   


So they did, picking up only the occasional eyetracks, two attractive men not quite dressed to the nines, but certainly to kill. And then it was as if they were in a dream world, one where Charles couldn't move, because some numb fuck breezer addict was threatening _his_ boyfriend, who could defend himself, but was hardly as talented in breaking skulls as Charles was.   


Watches, wallets, credit cards -- _red,_ dammit, Michael was bleeding, just like Rachel said it was, or didn't say, that unspoken "bloody" still coming across his brainwaves loud and clear. He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, not even call for help -- Rachel, Aunt Amy, protect him, help me -- because they'd stabbed Michael, his Michael, all he really had in the world, even more important than his writing because that was his fucking _muse,_ and what was a writer without a muse to inspire them?   


Then he was on the ground, too, the suit that Michael insisted he had to have lest someone less stunning buy and defile it now torn and just as bloody, and he wanted to scream but he couldn't, because Michael wasn't making a sound and that wasn't good at all, and the bastards who'd hurt the love of -his- life, not theirs, were gone, gone like the wind, so now they were alone but not in the good way because oh, God, it hurt so fucking _much..!_   


~*~

  


May 6, 2023  
3:42 AM   


Blackness, but no more silence. He could hear a buzzing in his ears, a muted beeping even further away, dragging him out from the safety of the dark and the quiet. Then something that was bright and golden, blinding him even though he couldn't see it.   


~~Charles? Charles, it's Mom. Please, wake up. I know you're there, and we're so worried about you after the scare you gave us. The whole family's here, you have to see the turnout for yourself, _please,_ Charles...~~   


Then it trailed off to a desperate rush. No words, which is what he was always better with, but pure emotion, thought that he could decipher if he weren't so tired and didn't want to go back to sleep so badly. But this wasn't his bed, and he couldn't feel Michael next to him--   


Oh, God.   


There was a tube in his throat though he didn't know why and he couldn't talk unless he wanted to choke, too. It all came flooding back and suddenly, he was freezing. ~~Michaelwhere'sMichaelgetmeMichaelnownow_NOW_--~~   


In his hospital room, in the real world, Jean and Rachel Summers traded a matching look of concern. One's son, the other's brother, was screaming wordlessly in a way that most of the building would never be able to hear, begging in a silence that was deafening to both women. Down the hall, Charles's father, his brother, his nieces and nephews, his aunts and uncles, his cousins, any telepath or whoever might have been linked to a telepath, twitched as one. It was heartbreaking for those who knew what was going on.   


~~CHARLES!~~ Rachel had to psionically scream to make herself heard, causing her baby brother to lower his own volume and taper down to a pathetic whimper. Jean sat at her son's bedside, stroking his hair in a manner that would have made it apparent to any strangers that the beautiful woman was his mother.   


Rachel instantly regretted her actions. She _knew_ that this was going to happen, and from the look on Charles's face when he opened his eyes -- bleary, but full of wrenching grief -- so had he. Never in her life had she so regretted not acting. She stood paralyzed by his gaze, though it was hardly accusatory, and when Charles moved to remove the needles, tubes and other devices that had been taped to his body, it was Jean who gently took his hands away.   


~~Where is he?~~   


She faltered, but Jean, the picture of maternity as always, picked up without a pause. "He's being operated on, Charles." Rachel didn't look away as she wanted to -- he would have recognized their mother's words for a lie if she had -- but instead met her brother's flat gaze. Across a strong psionic link, she felt her own boyfriend, Franklin Richards, still alive and well, project as many positive emotions as he could. Her eyes were his. God, poor Michael. Poor Charles. Operated on, not dead in the morgue... This was hell. It had to be.   


~~I want to see him. Now. Take me to Michael. Mom...~~ When he turned that pathetic look their mother's way, Rachel almost collapsed in relief. She couldn't do this, couldn't maintain that calm Jedi serenity any longer. Jean waved her off without a word.   


The middle Summers child, pretty redheaded girl that was always a constant source of grief, bolted like a doe. She didn't look back, just left the room and tried her damnedest to not run down the short ways to where the rest of the assorted family waited. When she reached them, no one said a word, but she was still bowled over by questions. It was all in their eyes.   


It was Mayana, Bobby and Amy Drake's second daughter, that moved from her seat, giving Rachel a place to sit between Franklin, and Rachel's niece Susan, lest she topple to the ground as she looked ready to do.   


"She hasn't told him yet" was how she began, tears pricking at her eyes -- poor Michael, poor Charles -- and she leaned into Franklin's embrace, willing herself not to cry. "He thinks that he's still being operated on, and..."   


Was there really anything left to say? Across the room, she caught a pained look shift over her father's weary face and knew that Jean was going to tell her brother the truth, that he had survived and just barely at that, but no one else had. Not even his attackers, courtesy Aunt Amy. Cold comfort.   


There was no question as to when Charles found out, when his world fell apart, because this time the scream wasn't just telepathic but vocal as well, and a tube jammed down his throat or not, Charles was going to make sure to voice himself in an ongoing cry of grief that could only end until he passed out or choked to death.   


Rachel burst into tears then, not knowing that she wasn't the only one, that Charles's howl affected most of them, because she was too busy burying her face in Franklin's shoulder since it was her fault for not stopping Charles and Michael, her fault for not having a clearer vision.   


Down the hall, Charles was reassuring himself that it was all his fault, that he'd failed Michael, that if he'd just done something more, powers or no, he could've saved the elder man, and his screaming refused to end because he was alone now and being alone was the worst thing in the world. 


End file.
